The self needs to be defined before I go out of my mind. Is knowing who I am the key to understanding others? Or is that just self-help rot? Have you ever been in a loud crowd, yelling with everything they've got, every eye flashing more brilliantly than yours? You feel diminished. You can't sing. Despite the world's misery today, the middle class which crushes you is still a thing. It's a funny taste as the crowd roars. You are never as good as them. But it's okay to feel sorry for yourself. I will defend you. Read my poem. Another's racism, another's adultery, is always worse than yours. Self-importance is the only thing that's yours. The self is nothing more than the belief that whatever is wrong with others is far more wrong in you. No embarrassment in the world triumphs like it does in you. The museum is open. Let's kiss. Come on! The idiot you are can do this.
